


Alley Oop

by nachomomma



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Basketball, College athlete Rey, Emotional Baggage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, General Organa takes no shit, Love & Basketball trope, NBA player Kylo, Rey talks trash, Reylo - Freeform, Slow Burn, The ghost of Han Solo haunts us all, got a basketball jones, it’s about family, subtweets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 21:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17393648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nachomomma/pseuds/nachomomma
Summary: She turns to retrieve the ball and stops midstep. There’s a black Nike resting on top of her ball. Attached to a large muscular leg connected to an equally muscular body, clad entirety in black.And a face she’d know anywhere.She’s stunned to see anyone else in the gym at this hour, and certainly nothim.He flicks the ball up into the air, juggling it with his feet before catching it. He meets her stare with a slight grin on his face.“So,” he says, easily palming the ball in his enormous hand, turning to face her. “The girl I’ve heard so much about.”





	1. Tip Off

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first time writing fanfic for anything, and I’m not quite sure what I’m doing, soooooo...enjoy?

Dawn has barely broken, but Rey Johnson is hauling ass across the campus of Alderaan University like her life depends on it.

 

And in some respects, it does. Her full ride scholarship, earned through blood, sweat and an complete incapabilty of knowing when to quit, hangs in the balance. The scholarship she earned in the classroom as well as on the hardwood, with hours of studying and writing out essays on bumpy bus rides to games, and still coming out with a 4.0 GPA, it could all be for naught.

 

Over a technicality.

 

She blows a hard breath out her nose, brow knitted in a sheer annoyance, and yanks the hood of her sweatshirt around her face. 

 

A technicality...

 

_I_ _gotta_ _blow_ _off_ _some_ _steam_ , she thinks, _before_ _I_ _spontaneously_ _combust_ _and_ _all_ _they_ _find_ _are_ _my_ _feet_.

 

Rey’s Curry 5s carry her across the grounds to her destination; Alderaan Fieldhouse.  the building displays its history proudly in the glass cases lining the main concourse: trophies, nets and black and white newspaper clippings of an era gone by. And then there’s the distinct tint of the air; a bouquet of wood, wax, sweat and popcorn. The very essence of basketball is embedded within the walls, and Rey has never felt more at home.

 

As the top point guard in the country, a McDonald’s All-American and a top recruit, coveted by all the top programs. She’d never considered anywhere other than AU.

 

During the summer,  doors unlock at 7 every Saturday morning for open gym. Rey is always the first one on the court (three years running) footsteps echoing throughout the empty arena. 

 

Ironically, the fieldhouse is also where all her troubles began. Not more than 4 years old, she’d been abandoned after a Knights home game.  _Just_ _stay_ _right_ _here_ _sweetheart_ , _Mommy_ _and_ _Daddy_ _need_ _to_ _see_ _a_ _man_ _about_ _a_ _dog_.If she squinted hard enough, she could see them in her mind’s eye, always walking away, their backs dissolving into the throng of fans in black and gold.

 

That’s where Ben had found her. 

 

He’d been standing nearby for a while, he told her years later, chatting with the fieldhouse staff, and as the minutes turned into hours, his concern began to grow as she sat on the cold concrete of the concourse, watching the exit doors, unblinking, lest she miss them rushing back in to collect her. Crouching down to her level, he’d waited with her in silence. Halfway down the tunnel to the court, Rey winces, remembering his clear blue eyes, soft and kind, looking so old with his graying hair to her young mind.

 

“Hello, there. My name is OB.” Rey simply nods, quickly turning her gaze back to the door.

 

“It’s getting late, young one.”

 

“They said they’d be right back,” she whispered. They hadn’t, but they would. She knew they would.

 

“I completely understand, but do you see my friend over there?” He gestured to the police officer standing near the exit. “He will keep an eye out for them. What’s your name”  

 

“Rey,” she responded, having never once in her whole life been lectured about “stranger danger.”

 

“Rey, I’d like to show you something.“

 

He stood up, stretching out his hand. Intrigued, she twined her fingers with his, letting him pull her up from the floor. They walked down the tunnel, straight out onto the court. 

 

14 years later, she still gets the same chills. The moniker of “fieldhouse” undersells the structure. It is more of a temple, perfectly preserved for over a century, with the exposed arched steel trusses of barrel-vaulted roof emulating the feel of a cathedral. Massive steel-sash windows flood the court in natural light, spotlighting the center court logo of a knight, dressed in black with sword raised, ready for battle, superimposed on a circle of yellow gold. It’s little wonder that many call it a Mecca of the midwest, a point of pilgrimage for devotees of basketball. 

 

BB, the equipment manager, pauses their pushing of a dust mop at mid court, turning to Rey with eyebrows raised. She gives a shrug, shaking her head, silently conveying that no news is good news. BB nods, and gives a small smile before continuing the task at hand.

 

“OB is a weird name” her 4 year old self had remarked. The old man smiled as he grabbed a ball from a rack on the sideline. 

 

“It’s short for ‘Old Ben.’ Some good friends had a son, and, well, named him after me. A...distinction had to be made.”

 

With a flick of his wrist, he started spinning the ball on his finger. Rey’s mouth nearly hit the floor.

 

There was no question in her mind: this man was a wizard.

 

It was that very night Rey first touched a basketball, first learned to dribble. “Always at your side, you keep it out in front of you, some one will come up and snatch it!” Ben swatted the ball away from her grasp, grinning mischievously as he whipped it around his waist before gently tossing it back to her.

 

The feel of the ball in her fingertips, the distinct sound it bouncing off the floor, echoing throughout the gym...it awoke something in Rey. Watching “Old Ben” dribbling behind his back and between his legs as easy as breathing, caused her to giggle uncontrollably. Then he picked her up, holding her high so she could shoot the ball in the hoop with a crisp swish, she had never felt happier in her short life. She wanted to do this forever.

 

But like most good things in her life, it came to a crashing halt. The police officer walked out of the tunnel, a woman with a briefcase right behind him. He and Ben exchanged a few quiet words, He rubbed his chin, nodded, and slowly turned back towards Rey. 

 

She doesn’t remember the exact words he spoke, she couldn’t hear much of anything with her heart beating rapidly over the realization of This Is Really Happening. He placed a card in her jacket pocket and pulled her in close. “If you ever need help, just come find me,” he whispered in her ear. When she went to give him the basketball back, he insisted that she keep it. 

 

Her short time with OB would be the last time she felt true happiness for 7 years.

 

* * *

 

 

A clink, beep and a clunk later, the vending machine spit out an ice cold can of cola. Tapping the top of the can before pulling the tab, Leia Organa let out a deep sigh. Her doctor had advised cutting back on caffeine and sugar, but he wasn’t here, and she was extremely inconvenienced at the moment. A can of the good stuff was in order.

 

She shouldn’t even be here. Summer was the prime recruiting season. She should be in a gym, sweating her ass off, watching basketball for 8 hours straight. And then maybe margaritas right after at that one Mexican place she likes. 

 

However, when the NCAA Committee on Infractions summons, it doesn’t matter if you’re the winningest coach in history. You clear your schedule and go to their offices. Immediately.

 

Even if you think the so-called infractions are complete and utter bullshit.

 

She barely gets a gulp of the drink before a hand pulls the can out of her grasp. Her assistant, Poe Dameron, dark curly hair in a state of disarray, is the spitting image of sleep deprived and annoyed. 

 

“You don’t need that,” he said, pouring it out in the water fountain.

 

“It’s one fucking soda, Dameron. It’s not like it’s gonna fucking kill me.”

 

“Your doctor said...”

 

“I know what the fucking doctor said, but if I’m gonna deal with this fucking bullshit after taking the fucking red eye outta Hartsfield...”

 

“Yeah, just go ahead and get all the ‘fucks’ outta your system, too, while we’re at it.”

 

“...and I _need_  the fucking sugar or I swear to fucking god I’m going to rip _every_ _one_ of those _motherfuckers_ ’ faces off!” She emphasizes every other word with a hard poke to his chest. 

 

“My, my Dameron, does your boss always abuse you like this?”

 

Their heads snap to the right, where a svelte man dressed in a olive green double-breasted suit is smirking. Leia’s nose wrinkles in disgust. 

 

“Ah, Tarkin. I thought I smelled your foul stench when we walked into he building.”

 

“Coach Organa. Charming, as usual. Shall we begin?”

 

He shoots another withering look in their direction before pushing through the conference room doors. Poe’s fists clench at his sides and grits his teeth.

 

“Man, I hate that guy.”

 

“I concur, but,” she sighs, “he’s got the power to blow us to smithereens.”

 

With a push of her glasses up the bridge of her nose and a straightening of her scarf, her entire countenance changes. Gone is the low blood sugar fit from a few minutes before. The General has arrived, and she’s not in the mood to take prisoners.

 

“Let’s not give him the satisfaction, hmm? You’ve got the evidence.”

 

It’s a statement, not a question, but Poe answers with a pat of his laptop bag. “Got it.”

 

“Excellent.” She smacks him hard on the ass. “It’s game time.”

 

* * *

 

Climbing the concrete steps two at a time, Rey ascends to the upper concourse, setting into her routine. High knees all along the north end, kick butts along the west, lunges the length of the south changing over to high skips right back to the starting point. Then there’s the climb to the very top, 50 steps to the east end widows that over look the campus gardens with the canal just over the horizon. She allows herself a moment to gaze upon the green splendor (who knew there was this much green hiding in the city?) and the sun shimmering off the water in the distance before practically rappelling down the bleachers to the concourse and then descending to court side.

 

 

She gives a sidelong look to the clock hanging above the tunnel. A quarter till 8, which meant she had about 45 minutes before anyone else started shuffling in. Plenty of time to work on the part of her game that embarrassed her most.

 

Free throws.

 

They were the bane of her existence. She’d averaged nearly 20 points a game in high school, but hardly any of those had come from the charity stripe. She could make an off balance shot from 23 feet away with an opponent’s hand practically shoved up her nose, no problem. But when it came to a clear, wide open shot directly in front of the basket from 15 feet? She was completely useless.

 

It was a flaw other teams exploited,  much to her chagrin. She was hacked to pieces whenever she stepped foot in the paint. Teams knew that the secret to keep her from scoring was to send her to the line, and she was determined to turn that around.

 

Grabbing a ball from the rack and spinning it out in front of her, she jog/dribbles to the north end basket facing away from the tunnel entrance. She doesn’t need any distractions today, she just needs to focus.

 

She scans the diameter of the circle, looking for the nail that’s in every single free throw line of every basketball court that ever was. It’s the center point of the circle that puts the shooter into a straight line directly in front of the basket. Rey places her toe there gently before scooting it behind the line. With a deep breath, she begins to go through the acronym OB always preaches.

 

B. Balance. Breathing out, she squares her feet, pulling her left foot back leaving her dominant right foot directly behind the nail. Setting the ball on the floor, she crouches down and mimes a shot. With her arm extended and wrist flicked forward, from her perspective it appears as if she is sticking her hand directly in the basket, exactly where she wants to ball to go.

 

E. Elbow. Directly under the ball, which is cradled in the wrist. Spaulding should be facing the hoop, OB had once chuckled, so he can see the way to go home.

 

E. Eye. On the basket. Focused. Focused where the shot will go. See the ball going over the rim and through the net.

 

Now, to put them all together. Taking three dribbles she crouches down slightly (balance) bringing the ball up next to her ear (elbow) she looks to the basket (eye) and shoots.

 

And the final part of the BEEF acronym: follow through. Arm extended, wrist flicked forward, fingers seemingly wiggling in a wave as if to say “bye-bye, ball.” The ball spins up and over the rim, _swish_.

 

Rey blows a stray hair out her eye. One down, 99 more to go.

 

The next shot hits the back of the rim and comes straight back to her. The next clangs out to the right, so she chases it down. The next clangs to the right. She resets, breathes. Balance, elbow, eye, follow through, shoot. Air ball.

 

Anxiety embraces her like an old friend. They’re right, really, to try to force her out. She doesn’t belong here. She’s a fraud, she can’t even master this one simple skill, it’s a fucking free throw. She doesn’t belong here. It should be so simple. They’re right. _They_ _are_ _right_.

 

She doesn’t belong here. Just like when she showed up on OB’s doorstep, one hand clutching the aged and tattered card and the other gasping the now worn basketball. 

 

She looked at the crowd of kids in the gym in their bright uniforms and clean shoes and then down at herself; stained shirt, shoes with flapping soles, say nothing of her face. She doesn’t belong here. Her parents must have abandoned her like garbage for a reason. They knew she was a horrible, undeserving person.

 

“Rey?”

 

She remembers the sound of his voice like it was yesterday. Hair a little grayer, skin a little more wrinkled. But still OB. She had burst into tears...

 

_Fuck_. She bends over, hands on her knees, taking in slow ragged breaths. She’s about to full on bawl now, she feels so...angry. Disappointed. No, she feels like a disappointment. She _is_ a disappointment.

 

This was supposed to be an escape. The game had always been a kind of safe bubble that was far, far way from the problems of everyday life. But now the two were one and the same, thanks to the Committee on Infractions and their “strong concerns.”

 

The burning in the corners of her eyes threatens to spill over into full blown tears. 

 

_Fuck_ _this_ _shit_.

 

Picking up the ball at her feet, she throws the ball overhand, as hard as she possibly can, causing it to ricochet off the backboard and into the backcourt. 

 

It feels good to take out a little rage. There was no one here to see it, anyhow. No harm, no foul.

 

She turns to retrieve the ball and stops midstep. There’s a black Nike resting on top of her ball. Attached to a large muscular leg connected to an equally muscular body, clad entirety in black.

 

And a face she’d know anywhere.

 

She’s stunned to see anyone else in the gym at this hour, and certainly not _him_.

 

He flicks the ball up into the air, juggling it with his feet before catching it. He meets her stare with a slight grin on his face.

 

“So,” he says, easily palming the ball in his enormous hand, turning to face her. “The girl I’ve heard so much about.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This plot bunny started when @hatershatesAREA on twitter posted their art Basketball Rey in Nikes: https://twitter.com/hatershatesarea/status/1080490415705313280?s=21
> 
> Rey is more of an Under Armour fan in this AU, and these Curry 5s in elemental/ivory/Tokyo grey: https://www.footlocker.com/product/model/under-armour-curry-5---men-s/291338.html
> 
> Alderaan University is modeled after Butler University and Hinkle Fieldhouse is my muse. 
> 
> Leia’s soda addiction is based on Carrie Fisher’s own love of Coca-Cola. 
> 
> Kylo Ren’s Nikes scream Kylo Ren: https://www.nike.com/t/lebron-16-basketball-shoe-2zXZVB


	2. Pick up game

Ben Solo was the absolute last person she expected to see on this already shitty Saturday. Yet here he was. In the flesh, tall, muscular...and smirking. 

She says nothing, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she simply motions for the ball back. The smirk fades from his mouth as he passes the ball back, and she allows herself a few seconds to watch him walk over to the rack and grab one of his own.

She shakes off the shock by diving into dribbling drills. Cross-over, behind the back, between the legs. Eyes up, looking ahead to catch Solo in the middle of a leg crossover stretch, his long legs seeming to extend infinitely into the air before coming to rest on the ground as he stretches out his lower back and glutes. His eyes meet hers, but she quickly pivots in the opposite direction.

Growing up, he had always been an enigma wrapped around a mystery inside a riddle to Rey. They’d both been part of the same basketball club ran by OB (Echo Base, home of the Fighting Tauntauns), but separated by age and gender. Their sole one on one interaction happened to be the same night Rey showed up on the Base’s doorstep. Ben shagged rebounds  as she drained shot after shot, passing the time while OB made phone calls regarding her “ _situation_.”

They didn’t speak. She didn’t ask why he was the last kid there, nearly an hour after the gym had cleared out, and he didn’t ask about the bruise under her eye or the cut on her lip. It was a mutual understanding of two people dealing with life the only way they knew how. 

They must have been at it for nearly 20 minutes, Rey never missing a shot and Ben rebounding and passing the ball back to her. He was a boy then, of course, not more than 16. Tall, skinny, all arms and legs with a mop of dark hair he was constantly brushing out of his eyes. She remembered the way he looked at her then, like she was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. A yell of “Ben!” from the other side of the gym sent him scrambling for his bag, but he still turned and gave her a wide smile as he waved.

He was _supposed_ to be the heir apparent to a basketball dynasty. Until, suddenly, he wasn’t. After announcing, to the collective shock of the AU faithful, that he would forgo his remaining college eligiblity and declare for the NBA draft, he literally changed his entire persona overnight. He became Kylo Ren, a trash talking thug with a temper that more than often got him in more trouble than he was worth.

Rey had always thought of him as he was; that awkward smiling boy. A far cry from the man doing lay-up drills at the opposite basket.  The man who had heard so much about her.

Curiosity gets the best of her. “What have you heard, exactly?” But the words die in her throat as two more people walk onto the gym floor. 

Mouth set in a firm line, she turns and shoots, banking it in. She can probably guess what he’s alluding to. It’s what everyone is talking about. 

 

* * *

 

“You must know that _everyone_ is talking about this.”

Light floods through the conference room windows, causing Leia to squint at Tarkin as he speaks. No offer was made to pull the blinds, so she knows the asshole is resorting to psychological warfare.

If Tarkin wants a fight, Leia is more than happy to give him one.

Despite the UV ray assault on her retinas, she maintains relaxed posture. Leaning slightly forward, hands folded together on the table, head cocked to the side in thoughtful attentiveness. She focuses entirely on her enemy, ranting before her, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

“This committee has reason to believe that Ben Kenobi had ulterior motive in adopting Rey Johnson. Motive that would benefit Alderaan University, his alma mater, mind you, specifically...”

Poe flies out of his chair, ready to flip the table. “Tarkin, you know as well as I do that’s horseshit!”

Leia puts a hand on his arm, throwing a patented warning glare over her glasses. _Not_ _yet_ , she silently conveys. With a nod, he smooths out his suit jacket, mumbling an apology as he sits back down.

Her assistant will be a great coach one day, but he’s still green. And still under the assumption that jumping up and down while yelling will bring about solutions. Leia waves a hand toward Tarkin, cutting through the rising tension in the room. “Please, Wilhuff, continue.”

Tarkin merely smiles, but it doesn’t reach his icy blue eyes. He smooths back his gray hair against the wrinkled skin of his skull. Leia has always thought that he seemed less a human being and more a heartless skeleton held together by his stiff, olive green suit. 

“As I was saying, Johnson was verbally committed to Coruscant State, until last summer, when she reneged on her promise and signed with Alderaan. Surely the committee agrees that this is a clear case of tampering!”

Leia slams her open palm on the table with a hard thwack, causing the six committee members to whip their heads towards her in shock.

“Finally, the heart of the issue,” she chuckles. “You’re mad because you got _jilted_!”

“Coach Organa,” he sneers. “You can hardly expect me to consider otherwise when dealing with the daughter of Anakin-“

“ENOUGH!”

She’s up out her seat, yell echoing through the room. Her calm facade has vanished. Tarkin has made one push too far, and now he will feel the full force of the brunt of her anger.

“You will not throw _his_ past in my face as though it predisposes me to such criminal behavior.”

Walking slowly towards him, she sees the terror in his eyes and she relishes in it. Though she is small in stature, her death ray stare is feared far and wide.

“You can dig through my personal history all you’d like,” she spits through gritted teeth, “but you will not bring _him_ into this equation. He may have been my father by blood, but the man who raised me, Bail Organa, gave me his name and taught me right from wrong. He never cut corners and he sure as hell did not raise a cheater.”

She’s close enough now that she can see the sweat beads start to form on his forehead. He didn’t expect this. He’s scared. _Good_.

“Ben Kenobi is a trusted family friend, yes, and he has donated generously to the university,” she jabs a finger hard into his chest, fleetingly surprised that she doesn’t burst through to the empty cavity inside. “But for you to insinuate that he adopted Rey for any other reason other than to be a loving guardian? Well, frankly, that _pisses_ _me_ _off_.”

Without looking away from Tarkin’s wide eyes terrified expression, she gestures to Poe. He whips out the laptop and begins to type and click with aplomb.

“Mr. Kenobi, who has infinite more patience than I, has agreed to be completely transparent, offering up bank account records, tax returns and court documents detailing the legal transition of Ms. Johnson from foster dependent to legal adoptee.”

Poe slides the laptop across the table, where the members quickly gather around the screen. Only then, when she sees Tarkin speechless and without a leg to stand on, does she turn and face the rest of the committee. 

“Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to go out into the hallway and guzzle a can of soda. I know you all will make the correct decision.”

And with that final remark, The General exits the battlefield.

 

* * *

 

 “ _MOVE_!”

The reverberation of Rey’s disgruntlement carries through the gym over the squeaking of sneakers, snapping the other four  yellow scrimmage vests out of their ogling of the pro player in their midst. It might just be a meaningless pick up game to the rest of them, but to Rey? Every play matters.

If she can’t get her team to move, she’ll maneuver her opponents. She won’t be intimidated by an NBA diva.

She pushes the ball up the court, driving into the lane and drawing the defense in general, and Kylo Ren in particular, to her before she scoops the rock to her left where the guy with the headband and goggles is now open on the perimeter. But Goggles hesitates with his shot and Ren seizes the advantage to jump out with arms extended, blocking the ball and sending it into the backcourt. He chases it down easily before going up for a reverse dunk that leaves Rey seething in the paint.

“Shot fake, and go around!” Goggles looks down at his feet sheepishly as Rey barks at him. “Kyle Richardson was out of position and you need to take advantage of that!”

If the trash talk has any affect on Ren, he doesn’t let it show, much to Rey’s dismay. She’s attempted to live rent-free in his head by calling him every name but the one he’s going by. After a missed free throw, she enthusiastically clapped “good job, good effort, Kevin Bacon!” She picked his pocket when he was driving in for a lay up, whizzing away with the ball and scoring an easy two points. “Nice assist, Keri Russell” she nodded to him as she ran back up the floor. 

Ren, for his part, never reacts other than tighten his man bun. _How_ _rude_ , Rey thinks. _At_ _least_ _have_ _the_ _decency_ _to_ _clap_ _back_.

Despite her best intentions, her team still loses. She pulls off her yellow scrimmage vest on the way to the water cooler, ripping a paper cup out of the dispenser. She’s halfway through her second cup when Kylo Ren materializes beside her. Choking in surprise, water rolls out of her mouth as she embarrassingly pulls the collar of her shirt up to cover he face.

“You and I got next,” he says, not making eye contact. “And whatever other three you want.”

Wiping her mouth, studies him for a few seconds, trying to determine if he’s messing with her. He turns to meet her gaze, and she’s surprised with how earnest his face is, how his mouth trembles just the tiniest bit, as if he’s afraid she’ll turn him down.

With a smile, she crushes the paper cup in her hand, tossing it with ease into the trash can behind him.

“Whatever you say, Keanu,” she quips.

His face relaxes, but his mouth frowns. “You know you don’t have to talk trash when we’re on the same team, right?”

“Oh, _Kylie_ ,” she smiles sweetly. “Trash talking with your teammates is the _most_ fun.”

He glances quickly out onto the court, but Rey swears she sees him blush. As an avid pusher of other people’s buttons, she files this information away for future use.

After taking a minute to tighten her bun, she looks over shoulder and catches him staring at her, still as a statue. The look on his face gives her pause. It was the same way he looked at her all those years ago. One of complete reverence...and something _more_. Something that made her feel like she was at the percipice of a roller coaster, about to tip over the edge. Heart beating rapidly, she reacts the only way she knows how.

With humor.

“You ready, Kurt Russell?” 

He blinks. The spell is broken. Rey blows out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. 

Time to play ball.

 

* * *

 

The point guard is the extension of the coach in the state of play. Rey has always been a natural in this position, with a preternatural ability to see the play before it happens. A two man trap coming to impede her dribble? Reverse pivot, someone is open, find them, make the assist. A defensive mismatch of a guard on a center? An easy two points. A defender out of position with their back to her? With a simple jerk of her head, she’d make them sorry for their ignorance as her teammate would cut to the basket and she’d hit them with an easy pass.

It was a skill she couldn’t explain. It had just always been there.

She had expected being on the same team as Kylo to be headache inducing, remembering the meme of clips of him screeching for the ball intercut with clips of cartoon seagulls saying “mine!” He’d seemed almost bored in the first game, but Rey braced herself for that patented Kylo Ren rage.

What she hadn’t expected was for him to set a screen for her as the first play. Both defenders dropped to her, stupidly leaving him wide open as he rolled to the basket. An easy bounce pass assisted him for a lay up.

“Nice screen, Kenny” she punched him in the arm as she jogged back on defense. 

“Call me Ben,” he grunted, finding his defensive mark and putting a forearm in their back.

From that point, everything comes so... _easy_. Rey’s never felt such a natural chemistry, at least not one that hasn’t been cultivated over hundreds of hours of practice. They’ve been on the same side for mere minutes, but it’s like they’ve been playing together all their lives. When a shot goes off the rim, Rey is already sprinting to the backcourt, intuitively knowing he’s going to throw a baseball pass. Sure enough, the ball materializes in front of her for an easy lay-in. After passing him the ball in the paint, the defense collapses on him. Their mistake, as he no-look passes the ball over his shoulder to where Rey is in the corner, wide open for a three-pointer.

_It_ _really_ _isn’t_ _fair_ , she muses, dribbling the ball between her legs across the half court line. _We_ _could_ _have_ _easily_ _beaten_ _them_ _two_ _on_ _five_. 

Stopping at the top of the key, she throws the ball up in the air. The trajectory is off, but she had no intention of putting it through the hoop. He rises up, just like she knew he would, grabbing the ball and slamming it down for the alley oop dunk.

Game over.

Rey sits out the next game, reclining on the bleachers at the end court that serves as the student section during the season as she scrolls through her phone. No new messages, phone calls, or notifications. Even reddit seems conspicuously quiet. She tries to take in the game and keep a “no news is good news” mindset, but she keeps the phone in her hand, glancing down every few minutes to check her home screen.

Slowly, the gym empties of participants as lunch time approaches until it’s just the two of them. Rey shooting jumpers, Kylo...no, she corrects herself, _Ben_...shagging rebounds.

“This feels familiar.”

Rey stills at his words, barely above a whisper, shocked that he’d remember at all, let alone bring it up. She regroups and shoots quickly before her shock becomes abundantly apparent.

“You were just a kid, then,” he continues, tossing her the ball at the top of the key. “But you were already better than anyone I’d ever seen.”

Thrown off by his flattery, she bricks the next shot.

“Then you must not have seen many,” she scoffs, chasing down the ball. She bounces it to him where he stands on the baseline.

“Don’t do that,” he looks at her with that intense gaze she knows he gets honest from his mother. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re such a special player, and you haven’t even scratched the surface of what you can accomplish. I’m sure The General would back me up on that. You wouldn’t even be on her radar, otherwise.”

She can feel the flush across her face as he shoots the ball. Chasing down the rebound, she gets an idea she hopes will change the direction of whatever thisis. 

“Let’s scratch the surface, then,” she smiles mischievously. “Game of Horse?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Horse?”

“Sure. Gym doesn’t close for another 20 minutes. And I’ve never beat an NBA player in Horse before.” She tosses the ball up and starts to spin it on her finger. “No time like the present.”

He closes the space between them in three long strides, grabbing the spinning ball from her finger. “You’re on. What are the stakes?”

“Hmm,” she squints her eyes and strokes her chin in a pseudo-contemplative gesture. “Winner buys lunch?”

“I’ll see that, and I’ll raise you that it must be in walking distance. Let’s say, six block radius?”

A chuckle escapes her throat. “Planning on losing already?”

“Nah. Maz’s is five and a half blocks away, and I’m just dying for a giant tenderloin. Bank.” His shot bounces off the exact middle of the square on the back of the glass and bounces through the hoop. A shit-eating grin crosses Rey’s face.

“Game on.”

It quickly becomes apparent that they are too evenly matched for run of the mill shots. Rey earns her first letter after a failed sky hook while Ben shows a weakness when shooting from the corner. The game devolves into increasingly crazy trick shots, shooting from the top of the scorer’s table, blindfolded with a scrimmage vest, back to the basket, on the knees and while sitting in a chair. They seem to reach a stalemate of HORS when Ben does the one thing that fills Rey’s stomach with dread; stands behind the free throw line and looks down to find nail.

“You son of a bitch,” she mutters. A ghost

Of a smile crosses Ben’s face as he executes a textbook free throw; bend the knees, eye on the basket, elbow under the ball, follow through...swish.

“Man,” he gloats. “I am _sooo_ hungry!”

Rey rolls her eyes as he holds his stomach like he’s some starving child on a sponsor a child commercial. She wrenches the ball out of his grasp and steps up to the line. 

I can do this, she thinks to herself. She blows out a breath. Balance, eye, elbow, follow through. She shoots.

The ball bounces off the back of the rim with a loud clang. She groans, covering her face with both hands.

“You need a teacher.”

Her hands fall from her face and she eyes him incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“Your form is perfect, but you’re overthinking.” She steps to the side as he walks up to the line. “When you go to shoot, you pull the string.”

Her brow furrows. “I do what now?”

“Pull the string. Your arm flinches back in the middle of your shot, throwing everything off.” Taking a couple of dribbles, he demonstrates, showing the slightest hesitation on his follow through, causing the ball to bounce off the front of the rim.

“Huh,” she blinks up at him. This whole situation has her feeling perplexed. The man standing in front of her, the same one she’d seen blatantly kick an opponent in the crotch as he went up for a jump shot in a clip that went viral on sports Twitter. Yet here he was, offering her tips on free throws, looking at her with big brown eyes and standing so close it gives her goosebumps.

A melodic tune pierces the air, causing Rey to jump. “Shit, my phone,” she mutters, running over to her bag.

“The General” is on her lock screen, and Rey shakily swipes to answer. 

“Hey, coach.” She braces for the worst, for the _well_ , _it_ _didn’t_ _work_ _out_ or _it_ _wasn’t_ _the_ _result_ _we_ _were_ _after_. But The General’s tone is anything but despondent. In fact, Rey’s never heard her coach sound more euphoric. Rey can barely mutter more than “uh huh” and “yup,” her heart is so full. They’re going to let her play. _They’re_ _going_ _to_ _let_ _her_ _play_. She hangs up, a broad smile across her face.

“Ben, I just got the best news!” She turns to tell him, but there’s no one there, just a single ball on the court near the free throw line.

“Ben?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on Twitter! @nachomomma55


	3. Replay

“Kylo Ren is a dick. Can I say that? Can...can I say that on the radio? I don’t care. I don’t care if I’m gonna get emails from his _stans_ , I’ll say it again...Kylo Ren is a DICK.”

A British accent flows from the speakers as Ben weaves through traffic on the interstate. With hundreds of radio stations and nearly 50 gigs of music in his car, He makes no move to turn the dial. 

“He’s a dick _and_ he’s overrated,” rants Armitage Hux, the number one radio host (per his own commercial) on THE Sports Network. “Sure, his team made the playoffs. Sure, they even made the conference championship. But they lost. THEY LOST. Because Kylo Ren was a non-factor. The sports media calls him a superstar. A SUPERSTAR!” Hux scoffs. “If that’s the criteria for being a superstar, then my dear Grandmama, Wilhemina Lattice Hux, 93 years young, must also be an NBA superstar because she has just as many game winning shots as Kylo Ren. _ZERO_.”

Ben sighs as he flips the turn signal to take his exit to Endor. The path of concrete walls fades into a lush greenway that winds deeper into the forest for which the town is infamous. 

“Small babies who cannot even walk, and, and they _slobber_ all over the place, have hit as many game winning shots as Kylo Ren!” The ranting ginger Brit drops Kylo’s name so often, he’s often wondered if Hux has a quota. 

Their history dates all the way back to when Ben was fresh off his stint in the Euro leagues after foregoing his college eligibility.  He was drafted, second round, next to last pick. Definitely not a prime position. So when he announced through his agent, Dopheld Mitaka, that from now on he’d only answer to his new name, Kylo Ren, the media had a field day. They compared him to the ridiculousness of Metta World Peace and Chad Ochocinco while laughing it up on all the morning sports shows. Hux had been a fresh faced sports reporter back then, looking to make his big break. And then he landed Kylo Ren’s first interview.

To say it had not gone well would be a gross understatement.

He’d kept Hux waiting for nearly an hour, leaving no time for any kind of prep for the interview. When Hux addressed him as Ben Solo, he’d simply said “I don’t know him” as he sipped from a mug of tea. 

“Kylo Ren,” Hux corrected. “My mistake. It’s a pleasure to have you here.”

“I’m sure.” Kylo crossed his legs and threw his head up, suddenly very interested in the texture of the ceiling. The camera cut to the newly minted reporter, catching his face in a state of utter perplexity. Shaking his head, he checked his notes in an attempt to gain his composure.

“I’d like to ask you a question.”

“You can certainly try.”

Hux’s lips pursed tightly as he glared at the dark haired man smirking gleefully across from him. After a deep breath blown out through flared nostrils, he once again resumed the face of a thoughtful journalist.

“I’d like to talk about Alderaan...”

Kylo leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Red flags started waving vigorously in Hux’s mind.

“Ok.”

Hux quietly sighed with relief. The flags ceased flying. Maybe he had just misread the situation. Maybe this was still salvageable.

“At Alderaan, you averaged 20 points a game. You won your conference, easily, might I had. And you also made it through to the Elite Eight in the tournament. The Knights were a well-oiled machine, but it seems like you were the lynchpin as they didn’t even make it to the dance this year. So, why leave behind a practically guaranteed chance at greatness, immortality, for the slim odds of making it at the professional level?”

A cut back to Kylo showed that he had suddenly become interested in his cuticles.

“You don’t have a response?”

“Mmm,” Kylo squinted his eyes thoughtfully. “Nope.”

“Wh...what?”

“You said you wanted to talk about Alderaan, and you did.”

“But, but...you never answered the question.”

“Ah, but I never promised that I would.”

Red-faced with rage, Hux throws his notecards over his shoulder with a flourish.

“Fine, what do you want to talk about?”

Kylo leans forward, one arm on his knee, the other stroking his chin in an exaggerated expression of contemplation.

“Your suit.”

“My...excuse me?”

“It’s awful. What color is that, maroon?”

“ _Currant_ ,” Hux spit through gritted teeth as he smoothed down his lapels.

“It’s awful. Terrible. It’s terribawful. It’s so bad, I need a new word in order to describe it.”

“Are you taking the _piss_ out of me?” Hux’s voice goes up higher with agitation. “That’s real funny for someone who’s done _sod_ _all_ with their life!”

“At least I’m not color blind,” Kylo quipped.

That’s the last straw for Hux. He stood up, pulling off his jacket.

“Alright, you sodding git,” his hands are clenched into fists hovering in front of his face. “Let’s go. On your feet.”

The smile faded from Kylo’s face as he rose from the chair, slowly straightening to his full height. He glared down at the ginger, causing Hux to become visibly startled. He backstepped and nearly tumbled back into the chair. He flinched when Kylo raised his hand, as if expecting a punch, but the taller man calmly removed the microphone that was attached to his shirt, placed it and the pack into the chair, and walked off the set.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Hux screeched. “Walk away! I hope your _career_ lasts as long as this interview!”

Within 48 hours, the clip had 2 million hits and spawned countless memes.

Their interview thrust Hux into that rare arena of notoriety where there were only the options were either to crawl underneath a rock and live out the rest of your days, or embrace it until you absorb it completely. Armitage chose the later, becoming an almost cartoonish caricature of himself. His face, frozen in a primal screen, was plastered on billboards, buses, and across social media. Sure, people claimed to hate him, but that didn’t stop them from tuning in daily to hear him rant non-stop for three hours.

As for Kylo Ren, the jokes were quickly silenced when he came out to his pro debut like man possessed. Whatever preconceived notions the experts had about his future as a pro went out the window as Ren dropped 27 points against the defending champs, on their home court, shocking everyone. 

Ben smiles faintly at the memory as he pulls in to the garage adjacent to his building.

“Let me tell you one thing about Kylo Ren,” Hux takes on a more candid tone, as if this classified information that only a mind such as his would be privy to. “Kylo Ren is a coward...”

The radio cuts off with the engine, and Kylo runs a hand through his hair. Strange how someone so obtuse could be so perceptive, he thinks.

Because Hux is exactly right, Kylo Ren is a coward. 

At least, he would be, if he were in fact a person and not a persona. A carefully crafted mask created by a boy in grief, a boy who wanted to be free of his pain.

It wasn’t a solution, the pain was still there, but if no one can see it, no one ever asks about it. If you bury it down deep enough under layers of grimaces, rudeness and just general assholery, no one bothers you. Not even your mother (although they had taken to polite, noninvasive texting in the last year.)

And that was Kylo Ren to a T. For nearly four years, now, he’d immersed himself in the game. There was nothing else, just eat, sleep and basketball. Unlike his teammates, he never put down roots in the cities of the teams he played for. Instead, he signed monthly leases, because a hotheaded player, no matter how talented, would always be considered a commodity for a trade. He lived out of suitcases, only buying this condo, secluded in Endor’s vast forest, at the behest of his agent. But even this living space was sparse. The only signs of any kind of life were a couple of dishes in the sink and one solitary framed photograph of a man silhouetted by light and holding a baby. Eat, sleep, basketball. Over and over. 365 days a year. For four years straight. 

Then, this morning happened. He woke up from a dream, not the usual nightmare of darkness closing in on him from every side, inescapable and all consuming,

No, this was the most clear and vivid dream he’d ever had. He was 13 years old, wearing his Echo Base uniform, hair a mess, head hung low. It must have been after a particularly bad loss, a last second shot. Ben had a hand in the kid’s face, but the shot went in anyhow. Swish, buzzer, game over.

He’s beside himself. He hates losing. This must be all his fault. If only he’d made more shots. He should have read the pass, stole the ball before the kid got it and then...

“Hey, kid.”

It’s a voice he’d know anywhere. He doesn’t look up. He can’t look him in the face. He just can’t.

He feels a hand caress his cheek, a thumb wiping away a tear.

“Look up at me, Ben.”

“Why?” he sniffles.

“Because I want to see the face of my son.”

Raising his eyes, he sees the face of Han Solo. There, in front of him, and whole. The tears run freely into full on sobs. Han sighs, and pulls him into an embrace, one of those tight hugs that Ben misses so much, something he’d give anything to feel again.

“Hey, hey,” Han whispers in his ear as Ben buries his face in his shoulder. “I know you hate to lose, but there’s nothing you coulda done, ok? That shot was just plain luck. You did your best, right?”

Ben nods, feeling the snot soak into his father’s shirt. 

“Well, that’s all you can do. It’s just one game. Even your mother loses a game every once in a while.” 

Young Ben couldn’t help but crack a smile at the thought of Leia Organa after a loss, brow furrowed, pounding back soda as she rewinds and fast forwards and rewinds again through game footage.

Han releases his iron grip, bringing his hands up to cradle his son’s head. Forehead to forehead, this would be the last time he’d be taller than his son. Ben would shoot up 6 inches over the next few years.

“Let’s go home, huh, kid?”

Ben nodded, blinking back tears. “I wanna go home, Dad.”

“Everyone misses you,” Han whispered, so close, yet far away at the same time. “Come home, Ben.”

“Come home.”

He’d woke up, face hot with tears, and sat on the side of the bed, head in his hands. He sat for...minutes? Hours? Days? At some point he must have stood up, got dressed, pulled a protein shake from the fridge. He felt stuck in that space in between waking and a dream, one second looking out the balcony door at the birds rustling in the trees outside, the next he was in his car, driving. He was just feeling so many things at once, so many things he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in so long just percolating inside him. And then there was this thing that was pulling him. To take that exit. Turn left here. Right there. Stay in the middle lane. Merge. Turn into the parking spot...

...right in front of Alderaan Fieldhouse.

( _Come_ _home_ , _Ben_.)

He laughed, shaking his head as he got out of the car. 

_This_ _is_ _absurd_. _This_ _is_ _crazy_. _This_ _is.._.

_It_ _won’t_ _hurt_ _just_ _to.._. _go_ _in,_ _just_ _for_ _a_ _minute_. _There’s_ _probably_ no one here. _It’s_ _still_ _early_.

He walks through the doors, like he’s done hundred of times before. Walking with a hint of trepidation, though. As if the very walls of the structure will crumble to the ground as a result of his presence.

That’s when he saw the girl. She was shooting free throws. Badly. And had apparently reached her threshold for failure as she hurled the ball angrily at the backboard, sending it ricocheting right to his feet. When she whirled around, he recognized her instantly.

It’s OB’s kid. Rey. The newest recruit his mother can’t stop talking raving about. And she’s looking at him like a deer in headlights.

She...grew up.

He tipped the ball up onto his foot and juggled it around for a few beats before flicking it up to his hand, palming it easily.

“So, the girl I’ve heard so much about.” He flashed her a smile, but she remained stone faced, because _of_ _course_ she would. He’s Kylo Ren, asshole extraordinaire, acting like a creeper. 

_Nice_ _job_ _with_ _that_ _patented_ _Solo_ _flirting_ , he thought, tossing her the ball before grabbing his own from the nearby rack. He really only intended to shoot for a couple of minutes. But he underestimated how hard it is for an NBA player to come to an open gym, unannounced, and not get roped into a pick up game. _So_ _just_ _one_ _game_ , _then_ , he told himself.

But then there was Rey. It was so rare to witness someone who actually wanted to hone their skills and not just imitate whatever 15 second clip they saw on SportsCenter. And the way she played with such severity, like it was a life or death situation. Barking out orders to her teammates like a captain on a battlefield. She feared nothing and no one, least of all him, driving the ball straight at him before scooping it off beautifully. Plucking the ball straight from his hands before he even knew what hit him, comically still going up for a shot with nothing to shoot with. 

And then there was the smack talk. He was actually envious of her proficiency with words that enabled her to psychologically assault her opponents. He himself had never been that great with trash talk, but when you’re a hulking behemoth, you don’t really have to be, your mere presence is intimidating enough.

As the game played on, one thing became abundantly clear to him: he wanted her on his team. Maybe it would turn out to be a terrible idea. Maybe they’d get along as well as oil and water. It didn’t matter, he was willing to take the risk.

He really shouldn’t have worried.

Never had he felt such a connection on the hardwood. Every play felt effortless, like they were completely in sync. And it was clear she felt it, too. They dominated the entire court, decimating their opponents with ease. He couldn’t remember the last time playing had felt like fun and not a _job_.

But most of all, he found he actually enjoyed connecting with another person, particularly Rey. He felt like a man who’d been walking the desert for days finally getting a drop of water and thirsting for more. More of her behind the back passes, more of her pretty jump shots, more of the dazzling smile she’d give him as they high fived after a play. A smile that made his stomach do somersaults. He even told her to call him Ben, for fucks sakes.

Dribbling idly on the sidelines as the gym emptied out, he bided his time, waiting for the chance to interact one on one.

Alone at last, he tried to convey how highly he regarded her. She shrugged it off as a joke. Something about the way she nonchalantly put herself down sparked an anger inside him. To him, she was magnificent, and he’d tell her every hour of every day for the rest of his days if that was what it would take for her to believe it. She has so munch untapped potential buried under all the doubt. He wants to tend to her, care for her, and watch her bloom into something truly spectacular.

All this was on the tip of his tongue when she suggested the HORSE wager. Of course he took it. He would have agreed to pretty much anything if it meant added minutes in her presence. As evenly matched as they were, he secretly wished the game would drag on for hours. 

Standing so close to her at the free throw line, looking into her deep brown eyes looking up at him through dark lashes, he realized he was absolutely, without a doubt, completely into this woman. And maybe, just maybe, she reciprocated those feelings. As he looked at her half parted lips, he contemplated verbalizing his intent.

Her phone rang, shocking them both from whatever was happening.

Overhearing her conversation pulled him completely out of the moment. He swallowed hard. The reality of what will happen next, the likelihood of seeing his mother...seeing _Luke_ , caused him to shudder and recoil as if he’d been doused with ice cold water. Whatever good feeling that was cultivated during the last few hours shriveled up under an onslaught of anxiety, fear and doubt. There was no way, no waythis could go anywhere but bad. 

So he ran.

The great and fearsome Kylo Ren ran like a puppy scared of his own shadow. He ran out to his car and drove as fast as the the limits of the law would allow back to his secluded fortress in the woods. The empty fortress he now stands in. Rubbing his face in frustration, he lets out a guttural groan. Another bridge burned.

With a sigh, he strips off his sweaty clothes, discarding them haphazardly on the way nto the bathroom for a much needed shower. Weighed down with regret, he presses his forehead into the marble tile, watching as the water swirls down the drain, replaying how things went from fantastic to incredibly wrong over and over in his mind.

_Feeling_ _things_ _is_ _exhausting_ ,he thinks as he pulls a black shirt over his head before he collapses onto his sectional couch, grateful for the deep suede cushions that provide ample space for his large frame. Remote in hand, he flicks on his television, only to be greeted by the 72 inches of Armitage Hux’s face.

“Kylo Ren is single-handedly ruining the game of basketball...”

More verbal abuse. More misery. It’s the least he deserves. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback. I continue to be amaze that anyone besides my self would read this, not to mention LIKE it! I’m on twitter as @nachomomma55, so feel free to say hi!


	4. First Quarter

 

It’s opening night at Alderaan Fieldhouse, and the stadium is packed. Anticipation has the crowd buzzing, and when the lights dim low everyone loses their collective minds.

A light tapping from the percussion section of the pep band rattles across the stadium, quieting the crowd as their eyes are pulled to a figure dressed in a hooded cloak walking to center court. The beat picks up with each step the figure takes, building and building up to a frenzy of sound until they reach center court. Suddenly, the drums cease, the cloak drops, and a woman warrior is revealed, drawing a roar from the crowd.

Leia can feel the reverberations as she stands in the darkened tunnel, lights flashing across her stoic features. She’s never been one for the theatrics, but she understands the algorithm. Offense wins games, defense wins championships, but the laser light show is what puts the fans in the stands. 

How the times have changed from her day. If three fans showed up to a game it was considered a boisterous crowd. The team had one set of uniforms bought with proceeds from a community bake sale. Hell, she even spent one night sleeping on the gym floor of an opponent during a snow storm because they couldn’t afford a motel. 

Looking over her shoulder, she sees her players bustling outside the locker room, hyping themselves up for the challenge ahead; jumping and chanting and exchanging in complicated gesticulations. They are reaping the dividends of her struggles and sacrifices in their brand new warm ups covering one of six sets of uniforms. She can’t help but feel a bloom of pride in her chest at what she has made of this program over the last 30 years.

Straightening her suit jacket she turns her attention back to the court, glancing up at the scoreboard screen. The Lady Knight mascot has pulled a saber from her belt and is holding it directly in front of her face. Suddenly, it lights up, bringing the crowd to their feet in acclamation. Twirling the weapon with a flourish, she gives a guttural scream as she spars with an invisible opponent. The crowd claps in time with each swoosh and slash, every jump and kick, until she finally brings the sword above her head and gives one final primal scream before bringing the blade down for a killing blow. 

Once again, the lights dim. Leia takes her cue, heels clacking on the concrete,  the crackling of the PA announer’s mic echoing throughout the tunnel: The drums switch up to a marching beat as the rest of the pep band starts to chant.

_Here_ _comes_ _the_ _General_!

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

_Here_ _comes_ _the_ _General_!

“THE MOMENT YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR!”

_Here_ _comes_ _the_ _General_!

“THE PRIDE OF ALDERAAN!”

_Here_ _comes_ _the_ _General_!

“LEIA ORGAAAAANNNNNAAAAA!”

The roar is deafening as she emerges into the spotlight as the entire band launches into sound, swaying from side to side. She acknowledges the AU faithful with a stern smile and wave before stepping to the side. The team comes bursting out the tunnel soon after, running the circumference of the court before going into warm ups. 

Meanwhile, Leia walks up the sideline where the familiar purple hair of the opposing coach, and old friend, Amilyn Holdo waits to greet her. 

“Amilyn, you skinny bitch.” She smiles broadly as she embraces the taller woman. “About time you got yourself a real coaching job.”

“Princess, I swear you lose an inch every time I see you.” Leia grimaces at her old nickname from their playing days when an opponent had decided to mock her alleged “royal” basketball blood. Not a smart move on her part, as a normal Leia is naturally driven to win, but an _angry_ Leia?

An angry Leia will utterly annihilate you and bring shame upon your family for generations.

“Anyway, I couldn’t be your assistant forever, and you’re certainly not retiring anytime soon,” Holdo says with a wink. “It was time. Your new guy seems to be working out pretty well.”

Their eyes move over to Poe, leaning against the edge of the scorer’s table, engrossed with the notes and plays on his tablet. His exterior reads calm, cool and collected, but Leia can tell he’s nervous by the tiny twitches of his toe pointing in and out and in again.

“He _is_ very good. Headstrong and stubborn, but I think I’ll keep him,” Leia smirks, a gleam twinkling in her eye. “Worst thing worst, he’ll be a warm body for the practice squad.”

Both women laugh loudly enough that Poe turns his head, eyebrow raised quizzically. 

“Inside joke,” Leia responds, gesturing between herself and Holdo. Poe frowns, clearly not convinced that their laughter isn’t at his expense, but quickly goes back to study his tablet.

The old friends say their good lucks and part ways back to their respective benches. Leia gives Poe a smile and a slap on the back before turning to inspect her team.

Jyn, the lone senior and captain of the squad, has been suffering from a bout of tendinitis. She seems to be pain free as she puts up shot after shot from beyond the arc, but Leia makes a mental note to have the manager, BB, have extra ice bags on hand just in case. 

Down in the paint, Phasma works on her weak side hook shot. It’s a skill she picked up in the off-season after being shut down in the paint during their loss in the tournament. A student manager comes at her with a large pad, simulating in-game physicality. But it’s the manager that works up a sweat taking the full force of the blonde woman’s strength as she backs him down to the basket.

Meanwhile, Rey works on her ballhandling, dribbling two balls from sideline to sideline. The General knows it hasn’t been easy for her newest recruit. The summer “scandal” coupled with the transition to the collegiate level had left the point guard’s confidence shaken. It’s a look Leia’s seen plenty of times over the years, the deer in headlights fear that’s a precursor to bolting for the door.

After a practice where the freshman had seemed particularly distracted, she pulled her into her office for an intervention.

“You’re not in trouble, Rey.” The younger woman relaxed slightly, exhaling a breath she’d been holding in. 

“This program is built upon a foundation of success.” She gestured to the numerous framed pictures adorning her office walls, all smiling young women posing with trophies of various shapes and sizes. “But that success is not just reserved for on the court. Rey, I know you haven’t been having the best time acclimating.”

Rey opened her mouth to protest, but the coach raises a hand, cutting her off.

“When you made your commitment to AU, I made you a promise, do you remember it?”

Rey nods, her eyes glassy with tears.

“I promised that I would do my best to help you develop as a player, person and a student. But you have to meet me halfway. So we’re gonna lay down some ground rules. You’re gonna sit in the first three rows of every lecture. Your education is more important than a game. If you are having difficulty, with _anything_ , you have to let me know, ok?”

The point guard nodded, tears running freely down her face. Leia stood up and walked around her desk to pull the young woman into an embrace.

“You are an exceptional young woman and you are going to do amazing things,” she spoke into her ear as Rey sobbed into her shoulder. “You have everything you need right here.”

From that point, Rey had perked up. The feedback from her professors was overwhelmingly positive, she became more vocal in practice and most importantly, she seemed happier than she had in weeks.

Leia crosses her arm a lifts her chin up as the warm ups continue. She has a good feeling about this group. They’re talented, motivated, and hungry to prove themselves. The odds may not be good, but...

_Never_ _tell_ _me_ _the_ _odds_.

Her gaze falls upon an empty chair directly behind the bench, the lone vacant seat in the arena, one that had been empty for over five years now. It is nearly indistinguishable from every other chair in the building, save for the gold plate inscribed with the words:

 

**_In_** **_Loving_** **_Memory_** **_of_** **_Han_** **_Solo_**

 

* * *

 

“Good evening everyone, and welcome to another season of Lady Knights Basketball! Expectations are running high this year as this squad of recruits is ranked amongst the top in the land. I’m Wedge Antilles and with me as always is Mr. Lando Calrissian!”

“Wedge, baby you are looking beautiful. The crowd behind us is looking beautiful, this stadium is looking beautiful...it’s a beautiful night for a ball game, baby!”

“Right you are, Lando. And as I like to say at the top of every season, if you are tuning in to your very first game with us, _everything_ you’ve heard about Mr. Calrissian is true.”

“Heh heh. All of it, Wedge! And it’s all in my new book, _The_ _Calrissian_ _Chronicles_ , coming out this spring. I don’t want to give too much away, now, but chapter 5 will blow your socks off!”

“Already pre-ordered, buddy. Ok, let’s breakdown this squad for our fans at home. Returning starters shooting guard Jyn Erso and center Gwen Phasma bring their experience of making it to the elite eight of the tournament last year. That taste of the big time has these women wanting more, Lando. They want to take their team all the way to the championship game this year.”

“And they are gonna have _HUGE_ help this year Wedge, in the form of one Miss Rey Johnson. A few months ago, her eligibility was in question when Coruscant State raised a stink about her reneging on a verbal commitment. But Coach Organa and her staff got the kinks straightened out with the NCAA, and she’s suited up tonight in the black and gold of Alderaan.”

“And speaking of The General, Leia Organa is in her 33rd season as the coach of the Lady Knights. She literally built this program from the bottom up, Lando. Six Division I championships, 1,000 wins and counting! You cannot mention Alderaan basketball and  not immediately think of Leia and that intense stare.”

“I’ve been on the receiving end of that glare, Wedge. It is not a fun feeling. But The General knows how to get the best out of her players, even sans the glare! She’s a master motivator and a seasoned playmaker. Some kids would give anything just for a minute of her tutelage. There’s no question in my mind, partner, the this year the Lady Knights will once again return to glory.”

“I second that, Lando. Come the end of March, I think we will see this team cutting down nets in NYC. Tip off is next. Stay tuned for Lady Knights basketball!”

 

* * *

 

Rey has a ritual before every game. Right before tip off, she squeaks her sneakers exactly four times as she walks in front of the scorer’s table. Stopping directly at midcourt she walks halfcourt line, scanning the crowd as she goes. Turning, surveying every face in the crowd, just in case.

_Just_ _in_ _case_...

Taking her place at the top of the key, she slaps the hardwood, the hurt-so-good sting resonating through her hands, and crouches down. She focuses on Phasma’s back as the center takes her position in the middle of the court. The crowd is super energized for this opening game, clapping and stomping along to the beat of the pep band. The noise is practically deafening.

The short shrill of the referee’s whistle draws the players attention to him as he throws the ball up into the air for the tip off. With nearly a 4 inch advantage, Phasma wins the jump easily, tipping the ball back and straight into Rey’s waiting hands. 

Everything falls away as she dribbles the ball up the floor; the roar of the crowd, the uncertainty of college life. This is where she is meant to be. This is what she is good at, what she’s best at. _This_ is where she has some grasp of control.

She sees everything. She sees Phasma flashing in the paint. Jyn cutting toward the basket, but unable to shake her defense. Jess Pava steps up with the screen, but Rey is cut off by a defender.

_Someone_ _is_ _open_...

It’s Sabine Wren, small forward, her full sleeve of intricate tattoos on her shooting arm, wide open in the corner. Rey bounces her the rock and she hits a 3 pointer easily.

The next 40 minutes play out the same. The Lady Knights are simply dominant. Phasma outrebounds the entire visiting team. Jyn is perfect from the free throw line. Rey messes around and gets a triple double and the entire starting five ends up scoring in double figures.

In the post win huddle, Rey celebrates with her teammates. Jyn gives her victory speech. “This is only the beginning, ladies! We’re going _all_ the way this year!”

Rey is smiling so hard, her face is hurting. She lets out a little yelp as Phasma comes up behind her, lifting her up in a bear hug.

“Helluva game, frosh,” she yells. “Keep it up.”

On the jog back to the locker room, Rey spots OB three rows up, unabashed pride written all over his face. Without a second thought, she bounds up into the stands to greet him.

“Great game, my dear,” he says, pulling her into a hug. “Rey, these are your first steps.”

She smiles broadly into his shoulder. How could _anything_ possibly ruin this moment?

 

 

* * *

 

A crack and fizz of carbonation echoes through the home office of Armitage Hux. It’s the in-between hours of late night/early morning, and the redhead is mining the internet for content. 

Everyone thinks it’s easy, being a sports talk show host, but it’s not. It’s a goddamn race. A never ending marathon to be the first. The first to get wind of a trade, the first to analyze a subtweet as a player frustrated with his coach or angry with a teammate for maybe fucking his girlfriend. It didn’t matter if your report was right or in anyway actually accurate, as long you got to it _first_.

It’s been a rather dry spell, but Hux will pan for gold until he finds it. Contrary to  his contemporaries, he does not employ a bevy of unpaid college interns. Nope, Hux does all of his own research and writing. He’s too proud of his work for that (and also a bit paranoid that someone would steal his thunder for their own gain). 

Sighing with frustration, he takes a long swig of his energy drink before finally typing in his old standby into the search bar:

**Kylo** **Ren**

He scrolls and scrolls, until something catches his eye. A video with the tag line “Kylo Ren gets schooled in open gym 😱 lol.” He hits play, expecting a Rick Roll.

As the images flash across the screen, Hux leans forward, not quite believing what his eyes are seeing. Eyes wide, the corners of his mouth slowly start to twitch upward. He replays again. And again. And again. With each rewatch, his smile becomes broader, teeth glinting like knives in the soft glow of the monitor.

With a quick clack of the keys, he composes a tweet attached to the video. He points a finger straight up into the air, and whistles as if it is a missle about to explode as hits the enter key.

His ratings are going to fly off the charts next week.

 

* * *

 

“ _Rey_...”

She’s running. She’s always running. She’s got to get away. If they catch her...

A hand reaches out and grabs her. She screams.

“ _REY_!”

Her eyes fly open. It’s the morning after the game. She’s in a bed, in her dorm room, staring directly into the wide brown eyes of her roommate, Rose Tico.

“Jesus Christ, Rey, you scared the shit out of me!” Rose pushes her long black hair behind her neck. “I thought you were having a seizure and about to swallow your tongue.”

Rey smiles, rubbing the sleep out her eyes. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “Stupid nightmare.”

Rose still looks worried. “If you want to talk about it, I’m all ears.”

“Nah, I’ve already forgotten the details,” Rey lies. Rose cocks her head to the side, but eventually returns to her side of the room and opens her laptop.

It’s always the same nightmare for Rey. Most of the time she gets away. On the worst nights? Well, she’d rather not play those back at the moment.

Rey sits up on the side of the bed. She hears a slight buzzing, but chalks it up to something Rose, an engineering major, is tinkering with. The two of them bonded on their first night as roommates when they took apart Rey’s malfunctioning Blu-ray player and then put it back together piece by piece. Rey’s always been a fixer, mostly out of necessity, but she could never see herself pursuing it as a career.

“What’s that sound?” She stands up, stretching and looking around the room. 

“That ain’t me, sweetie.” Rose looks at her over the top of the laptop. “ _Your_ phone has been buzzing nonstop for the last two hours.”

With a furrowed brow, Rey grabs her phone from her tiny dorm room desk. Her lock screen is flashing new message after new message. All twitter alerts. She scrolls through them, estimating that she’s tagged in no less than 100 posts.

“What the...” She unlocks her screen and dives directly into her notifications.

 

@ _reyoflight23_ is my new hero #futureisfemale

 

Any NBA team that has the guts to draft @ _reyoflight23_ is a team that’s all about #WINNING

 

No way this @ _reyoflight23_ video is real. HOW MUCH DID YOU PAY ILM FOR THIS @ _indignantginger_???

 

Rey’s brow furrows. What video are they talking about? She clicks through, finally coming to the original message from _indignantginger_.

 

@ _kylo_ _ _ren_ gets schooled by schoolgirl @ _reyoflight23_. FYI, the Kevin Bacon barb is my favourite 😂

 

She clicks play, knowing what she’s going to see, but not wanting to believe it. Sure enough, it’s a video of the pickup game. It’s edited down to just her trash talking Kylo and picking his pocket for a fast break. Not even 90 seconds long and people are losing their minds over it. 

Her phone continues to vibrate in her hands as she sinks down into her desk chair. She toggles her notifications to off and then sets her phone on the desk with a clatter. She thought she might have been getting credit for last night’s game. But, no, this is much worse. She’s gone viral for all the wrong reasons and it makes her feel sick to her stomach.

“Everything ok over there?” Rose has that worried expression again.

Rey has no response. She simply bangs her head on her desk, hoping that she’ll eventually wake up from this fresh new hell of a nightmare she’s currently in.

 

 

It turns out she really is awake. Only now she also has a splitting headache.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leia’s coaching style is modeled after basketball great Pat Summitt (RIP)
> 
> Lando and Wedge are a mix of Dick Vitale, Bill Walton and Gus Johnson
> 
> I’m on Twitter! @nachomomma55


	5. Flagrant

He feels it again. The anger.

It’s always been there, brimming right below the surface, for as long as he can recall.

If he’s completely honest with himself, this storm inside him has been brewing ever since Hux shared that damned video. The footage itself never bothered him at all, but the mere existence of the clip had been a constant source of exasperation. Suddenly the walls he built up around himself made of pure assholery were not enough to keep others away. Light ribbing from his teammates had been halted with a glare, but sports writers were not as easily deterred. Not in the locker room, not at shoot arounds, not in the airport terminals. Always looking to get a rise out of him. A reaction. Something they could write about with the headline “Kylo Ren’s RAGE RANT!” so they could get their clicks, views and likes. 

He gives them nothing but a silent scowl every time it is inevitably brought up. He refuses to give them the satisfaction of even a tiny morsel of a reaction. _Let_ _them_ _starve_ he thinks.

When he’s alone in the dark of night in a hard hotel bed, he flirts with the idea of telling the press how he really feels about the video. How he’s watched it more times than he can count, reliving the moment over and over. How he wishes he could play with a teammate with just one iota of her passion, just a sliver of her tenacity. They would be unstoppable. How he’s memorized every freckle on her face. How he’s increased the amount of vague texts he sends his mother, hoping she’ll give him some insight into how Rey’s doing...

_It’s_ _probably_ _for_ _the_ _best_ _no_ _one_ _knows_ _that_ he muses as he drifts off to sleep.

As per his modus operandi, he pushes all this down deep inside to fester for weeks until the anger percolating in him makes nostrils flare and his eye twitch.

Only now, it’s not just anger. He’s fucking _pissed_ _off_. Rage just flows through him constantly. He’s teetering on the edge of a full on explosion. 

The entire game, it gas been on the periphery. Hands have been on him all night, pushing, grabbing, hacking. On the road, at home, the refs always seem to have a blind spot when it comes to Kylo Ren. Perhaps the zebra stripes are still sore about a post game press conference where he was quoted as remarking “maybe if they pulled the _expletive_ whistle out of their _expletive_ _expletive_ we might have had a _expletive_ chance at winning the _expletive_ game.”

Usually, the borderline assault they allow is a source of motivation for his game. He doesn’t throw up his hands in frustration and cry to the refs like most of his basketball brethren. Physical pain is only temporary, but he can use it as a tool to push himself twice as hard. Bruises fade. Cuts heal. But winning? That’s forever. 

But even the thought of victory isn’t enough tonight. He’s got scratches on his forearms from a tangle in the paint. While stopping to tighten his hair, a ref gave him a warning for intimidation. He’s already got four fouls in the third quarter and the worst thing he’s actually done is _breathe_ in the general direction of an opponent.

Red tinges his vision as the game plays on.

His defensive man has been on Kylo like a fly on shit all night. Their arms hook as Kylo goes up to catch a lob pass on a transition play. They fall awkwardly, a mass of limbs, and Kylo lands hard on the floor. He sits up slowly, seething, pain throbbing on the side of his head. The first thing he sees is the defensive player, grinning. Kylo feels something warm and wet running down his face. He wipes his hand under his right eye.

_Blood_.

_Red_.

All he sees is _red_. 

The last time he felt this, he destroyed a locker room, a display case and whatever semblance of a relationship he had left with is uncle/coach.

He hasn’t broken anything in anger in a long, long time.

But that guy’s neck will do.

The footage they’ll show later in 15 minute intervals on SportsCenter will portray a man unhinged, grabbing his opponent by the throat and thrusting him up against the padded back stop. Haymakers are thrown, some even landing, before it turns into a straight-up bench clearing melee. The fisticuffs briefly spill into the crowd before five teammates, two referees and one assistant coach flailing about as he grasps hold of a leg finally tear Kylo from his opponent. They drag him back beyond the half court line where he shrugs them off and strides towards the tunnel to the locker room. There’s no point in staying on the floor; throwing punches is an automatic ejection. 

Fans rain down obscenities upon him as he rips off his bloody jersey and pitches it into the gut of an unsuspecting manager. Pain blooms across the entire right side of his face as he pushes into the empty locker room. He paces the floor, slapping a stack of cups off a table next to a water cooler because their very presence annoyed him. It felt good, really good, to let the rage out, but know he’s bottomed out. Now the rage is directed inward. He’s mad at himself, ashamed for losing control. Pounding around the room, panting, he can feel himself spiraling, unraveling.

_Just_ _breathe_.

It’s an old standby from his childhood, but it still works. A few deep, cleansing breaths later he doesn’t feel quite like he wants to fight the whole world. He’s calm enough to make his way into the training room where the team doctor is waiting to tend to his face.

She’s an older woman, tall and slim, with strands of silver shining in her auburn hair. Barely reacting with more than an arch of an eyebrow at his state of undress and quickly swelling face, she gestures to the exam table in front of her. 

“Hmm,” she muses, gently palpating his face as he winces at her touch. “Definitely a fracture of the zygomatic. I’m gonna initiate a concussion protocol, as well.”

Kylo doesn’t argue. He’s probably looking at at least a three game suspension (say nothing of a hefty fine). 

Out of the corner of his good eye, he sees _her_ on the TV screen. _Rey_. His constant source of distraction, face in full frame. She looks distracted, exasperated. The complete opposite of the confident and cocky woman he played with in the summer. When the camera angle changes to show the cream and crimson court of Coruscant State, he immediately understands the state of her body language. 

It’s a well known part of Organa-Solo family lore that The General hates State with every fiber of her being. Her former long time assistant, Amilyn Holdo delights in recalling the time when Leia, extremely pregnant with her son, suddenly began having labor pains while on a recruiting trip. The pilot began to divert the plane to the nearest landing strip...in Coruscant.

“She stomped, no, _waddled_ , straight up into the cockpit!” Holdo always chuckles gleefully at part. “She grabbed that poor pilot by the shirt and pulled him up out of his seat until their noses were touching and growled ‘THERE IS NO FUCKING WAY I’M HAVING THIS BABY IN CORUSCANT! KEEP. FLYING.’ And _that’s_ why Ben was born in Chandrilla.”

In fact, the only thing Leia Organa hates more than the mere existence of Coruscant State is losing to the Rancors. The scoreboard shows the Lady Knights down two points to their rivals with less than a second on the clock...with Rey at the free throw line.

_Fuck_ , he thinks. No wonder she looks like she’s about to throw up. Kylo swallows and works his jaw.

 “If you don’t relax your face you’re going to end up with a scar,” the doctor chides as she stitches up his cheek.

He watches as she dribbles slowly, bringing the ball up to face level. Rey’s nervousness seems to emanate from the screen, permeating the room. She shoots and makes the first of two. 

The television switches to a shot of Coach Organa, looking just as angry and murderous as her son did just moments before. 

“Don’t pull the string,” he whispers as though she’s able to hear him. “Don’t pull the string.”

She shoots again, her right arm pulling back.

_Shit_.

The ball hits the back of the rim. State gets the rebound. Time runs out. The Lady Knights lose. 

The Rancor faithful storm the floor, exuberant in their defeat of the number one team in the country. A short, blonde-haired sideline reporter attempts to interview Leia as students scream and jeer behind him.

“Coach Organa! Coruscant State took you to the ropes the entire game and ultimately came out on top. What is the main thing that factored into this shocking defeat.”

The General fixes the reporter with that patented glare and Kylo swears he sees the blonde start to tremble on screen. “It’s really simple, Holly,” she responds, brow furrowed. “They came to play, we didn’t.”

With that, she pushes her way through the crowd, leaving the flustered reporter to give a hasty “Uh, back to you, Bob.”

Kylo sighs and closes his eyes, even relaxes a little. He might be up the proverbial shit creek without a paddle, but at least he won’t be on the other end of a tirade from Leia Organa.

 

* * *

 

Funerals have had more cheerful atmospheres than the AU film room does on this particular Saturday afternoon. The Lady Knights are in their practice gear, but the only person making any kind of exertion is Coach Dameron and his laser pointer. The team sits in the makeshift classroom, diligently scribbling into notebooks. 

Coach Organa sits with her back to the projection, arms crossed, mouth set in a severe line. She doesn’t need to watch the film, Rey muses. She probably has the footage committed to memory. During the solemn plane ride back, the coach watched the video on her tablet and took notes. She lets Poe take the reins of this game review; her disappointed expression tells the team all they need to know.

She watches her squad like a hawk, her expression daring any one of them to snicker, sigh or roll their eyes as Poe drones on about “finishing at the rim” and “help side defense.”

Rey just wishes he’d come out and say it already: _they_ _sucked_.

They had been overconfident and underprepared. They’d been cocky enough to actually believe State would roll over for them, cower in the presence of mighty and undefeated Alderaan.

Their hubris would prove to be their downfall. Now, all their mistakes are projected on the screen in stunning 1080p.

It was a hostile environment in general from the get go (chants of “FU, AU” were quickly shut down by stadium personnel), but the fans honed in on Rey especially, with big head cutouts of a screaming Kylo Ren and signs with a stick figure Rey carrying a bindle over her shoulder asking “Are you my mommy?”

State executed a smothering full court press, and by the time the Lady Knights recovered they’d already committed three turnovers and were facing an 8-0 deficit. Leia quickly called a timeout.

“I’m sorry, I thought we came here to play a game tonight, not watch one!” The General’s face was contorted with rage in the huddle.  “We cannot continue to stand round. You have to move! Attack the spaces, anticipate the trap. Move the ball. _Let’s_ _go!”_

The decibel level in the arena rose exponentially every time Rey touched the ball. She couldn’t tune them out. And she also couldn’t hit the broad side of the barn.

Rey didn’t just miss, she missed _badly_. There was the three-pointer from the top of the key that was so long, it banged off the glass. A driving layup that flew high up off the glass, never even hitting the rim. Then there were the free throws. God, how she hated even thinking about them. Six for fifteen from the line. A dismal 40%. It was a fucking nightmare. 

It’s not as if she was the only one playing poorly. Jyn was uncharacteristically sloppy with the ball, racking up 6 turnovers. Phasma got killed on the boards while the rest of the team seemed to be at a loss as to how to pick up the slack for their three best players. 

The lights flicker on as Poe takes his leave and The General stands to face her team. 

“In life, there will be wins and there will be losses. I can accept that inevitability.” She looks around the room, locking eyes with each one of her players. “Winning is not the point. Wanting to win is the point. Never giving up is the point. And we missed the point last night. We gave up.”

Rey stares at the lines in her notebook, mortified by the truth. When they came up against a situation that didn’t go smoothly for them, they folded like a house of cards, tumbling flat.

“Losing? I can accept that, as long as we fought until there was nothing left. But quitting? That is unacceptable. That is _not_ the Alderaan way.”

She walks slowly between them, the soft swish of her black track suit the only audible sound. It’s the complete opposite of a usual post-game breakdown. There are no snide remarks from Gwen, no beatboxing from Sabine. No congratulatory clapping from Jyn. When Leia stops at the back of the room, the silence is almost deafening.

“As a coach I’ve always seen my players as an extension of myself,” she continues, gazing at the portraits of teams that have come before. “Their failures are my fault, their successes my responsibility.”

She sighs, turning away from specters of the past to face her present. “But if I’ve learned anything, failure makes you stronger. Losing strengthens you. It reveals your weaknesses so you can fix them.”

She claps her hands loudly, startling the entire room.

“Let’s get to fixing, shall we?”

 

The next 90 minutes are spent going over plays meticulously, until they are performed flawlessly. The chirp of The General’s whistle rings out whenever there is hint of a deviance from the norm. “ _Again!_ ” she yells. “This should be second nature to you, as easy as breathing. Run it again!”

They run the plays again and again. It’s a baptism of sweat, washing away the shame from their atrocious loss. With every screen set and lay up made, every squeak of a shoe sliding across the floor, The General’s brow slowly unknits. When Phasma gets a rebound and lobs it out to Rey for a fast break that ends with Sabine scoring a wide open layup, something vaguely resembling a smile pulls at her lips before she blows her whistle and gestures her squad to huddle up at mid court. “Bring it in!” she yells, clapping. Jyn, ever the captain, joins in, and soon the whole team is applauding with enthusiasm.

“Now, that’s more like it,” Leia booms. “That’s more like Alderaan!”

Rey lets out a whoop that’s seconded by Sabine. Even Kaydel Connix, the freshman walk-on, gets a yelp in, earning a playful push from Phasma. Leia raises her hand to quiet them.

“But there’s one more weakness We need to address.” She picks a ball up off the floor and walks toward the basket, stopping at the top of the key before turning back to face them.

“ _Free_ _throws_.”

Rey can feel the color drain from her face.

“We lost by two, missing nine, free throws. Correct, Coach Dameron?” Poe nods his affirmation. “Nine points,” she continues, juggling the ball back and forth between her hands. “Now, basic math will tell you, we hit at least half those shots, the situation is reversed. We win by two and I’m spared the migraine that comes from watching film on a ten inch screen.”

A quiet chuckle emits from mid court, but not from Rey. Even though she’s been basically running nonstop for the last hour and a half, she’s suddenly feeling very cold. Leia gives a sly grin before turning to the basket.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” she says as an aside, “but let’s make it interesting, hmm? Me versus you. Ten free throws.” She takes a few dribble before assuming an impeccable shot stance. “Every one I make?” After taking a pause for emphasis, she shoots. Swish. “That’s how many times you’re gonna run lines.”

With the stakes raised, the squad looks on as their coach makes shot after shot. Rey holds a hand over her mouth, her other arm clutches her torso. She feels as if she could puke her guts all over the court.

The count stands at 7 of 9 when she steps up to the line, holding the off the inevitable until the last possible second. Inhaling deeply to find some sense of calm, she takes a few dribbles and shoots.

_CLANG_

A grimace crosses her face as the ball bounces off the front of the rim and ricochets straight back into her hands. It takes every ounce of restraint she has not to punt it into the arched steel trusses of the rafters.

“Alright,” Leia barks. “Three lines, let’s go, no holding back, go as hard as you can.” She nods towards Poe as the women line up on the baseline. “Coach Dameron, on your mark.”

Poe blows his whistle and the women take off in full sprint.  To run lines is to touch one line on the court, run back and then sprint to the next line. Baseline to free throw line and back, then to mid court and back, followed by the opposite free throw line and back and finally the opposite baseline and back. All along, Poe is screaming  “Let’s go. Don’t give in! Don’t quit! _PUSH_ _IT_.”

The sprints are agonizing torment, but there is something cleansing about the burning in their lungs and sweat soaked clothes; the Lady Knights are renewed.

High fives, smiles, side jumps and daps are abound. Poe starts in with the clapping and everyone else joins in. “Bring it on in, guys. We’ve made it through the crucible!” 

_YEAH_ they shout back.

“This is the spark! This is the fire! Keep it going, don’t let it go out! We are gonna burn down whatever gets in our way, ya hear me?”

_YEAH_

“Alright, bring it in. On three...one, two, three..”

_KNIGHTS!_

Everyone heads to the locker room.

Everyone except for Rey.

She grabs a ball and continues to work, lining up at the free throw line. A couple dribbles, a slight crouch, a shot. She makes more than usual, but she misses more than she’s happy with. She keeps going. Balance, eye, elbow, follow-through, shoot. Over and over and over again

Her teammates, changed into their street clothes, shout their goodbyes as they head up the tunnel back to the real world. Connix pauses and drops her bag at the best the exit and shags rebounds for Rey. She hangs around for nearly 20 minutes before making her own exit. But Rey still lingers, only sidestepping from the line when BB passes through with a dust mop. She keeps shooting, trying in vain to decipher what in the hell she is doing wrong. 

“Rey.”

She turns at the sound of her name to see The General walking toward her. “I admire the dedication, but I’m closing up the gym. Go home.”

She juggles the ball back and forth. “Just five more minutes? I’ve almost got this...”

“ _Rey_.” 

Leia crosses the court to her. “You can’t let this hold you down.” Smiling, she places a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. Rey fleetingly wonders if this is a motherly gesture, but she has no basis for comparison.

“You are an exceptional ball player. This will come to you, I know it will. But in the meantime, you need to focus on your strengths. Your teammates need you to guide them.” Leia’s grasp on her shoulder tightens. “ _I_ need you to guide them. Do you understand?”

She nods, blinking back the tears burning at the corner of her eyes. She refuses to let her coach see her weakness. 

“Go, on. Get out of here. Head back to your dorm and be a student. Do some chat snaps  or whatever you kids do for fun these days.” Rey can’t help but chuckle as Leia waves a hand in the air dismissively. “I’ll see you at practice on Monday.”

 

Rey leaves the gym, but she doesn’t walk back to the dorm. She just keeps walking, hood up, breath frosting in the mid-December air. Her pace only slows to obey the flow of the traffic as she moves further from campus and deeper into the city proper. She has no idea where she’s going, only that she needs to get away. 

When she finally stops, a smile cracks at the corner of her lips. Muscle memory has brought her to the very place she sought out in her time of worst sorrow; Echo Base.

Pushing through the doors, she’s immediately transported back to simpler times where everything bad was behind her and all she needed to be happy was hardwood and a pleather ball. 

Squeaks of sneakers echo throughout the former warehouse as the last game of the day wraps up on the main court. Seemingly invisible with her Hood still drawn up, she climbs up the bleachers, watching the last few minutes as the parents of the Tauntauns scream and cheer for their kids. A pang of jealousy burns in her chest, and she wonders if the girls in the light blue jerseys appreciate what they have.

What she never had.

Swallowing hard, she pushes that resentment to the back of her mind. She doesn’t want that now, not here. She won’t let those feelings sully what this place means to her. It’s her safe haven, her sanctuary.

The only place that’s ever felt like home.

She reclines on the bleachers, scrolling through her phone. Only two DMs informing her that women have no place in athletics (how original) and a gif from Rose saying “you embarrassed this monster??” followed by no less than six shocked face emojis. It’s Kylo Ren choke slamming an opponent into the backstop.

Rey maybe watched it on a loop for longer than she’s comfortable admitting.

At last the last patrons exit and she’s up, shedding the sweatshirt to the sidelines and grabbing a ball and going into her drills. She doesn’t think of the loss, she doesn’t think of her inadequate free throw performance. She doesn’t think at all, just dribbles and spins. Squeaking shoes echoing throughout the gym as she goes full throttle up and down the court, over and over again. Pushing herself to the brink, sweat in her eyes, panting for breath and shooting a fade-away three that’s nothing but net before immediately collapsing on the hardwood floor. 

The coolness of the court is a welcome relief to her sweating body, but as she stares up into the rafters all the bad thoughts come creeping back into her mind.

_No_. She squeezes her eyes shut, grasping her head in her hands. _Not_ here.

But the floodgates are open. _She’s a fraud. How could she ever think she’d be good enough to compete at this level? She’s garbage, after all. Discarded. Thrown away. She’s nobody. Nothing._

“Rey?”

Looking up, she sees the crinkled gray-blue eyes of OB Kenobi.

“Everything ok?”

Smoothing back her hair, she attempts a smile. “Not a great day.”

“Hmm,” he muses stroking his beard. “Well, there’s nothing a hot cuppa can’t fix.”

She takes his hand as he pulls her up into a half hug. An hour of pouring her heart out over a mug of earl grey, she feels exponentially better. OB listens, he doesn’t lecture. He lets her work the problem out on her own, nodding agreement and occasionally raising a skeptical eyebrow.

When it’s all said an done, she’s drawn the same conclusion; not to let the free throws drag her down. Keep focused and keep a clear head.

OB pats her arm gently. “I’ve found that many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view. I hope one day you’ll see yourself as I see you: an amazing an capable young woman.”

Maybe, she thinks. Maybe.

 

* * *

 

Half a mile from Alderaan’s campus, Leia sits in the office of her quiet and empty house.

She hates the quiet and the emptiness. They’re subtle reminders of what she’s lost. 

On nights like this she’s at her lowest. She’ll linger in the kitchen too long, staring at the garage door, thinking that Han would bust through at any time, lopsided grin on a face covered in grease. She’d duck and laugh as he’d teasingly reach for her with his grimy hands. Ben would bound down the stairs, basketball in hand, head shaking in faux embarrassment as he’d raid the fridge. The house would be lived in and loud.

But the door never opens, just like it hasn’t opened in nearly four years now. She won’t open it. _She can’t._

With a deep sigh, The General takes a long swig of soda (diet, as per doctor’s orders, but it just doesn’t have that same taste) and cracks open her laptop. Immediately she’s greeted on her homepage by a picture of her son, wild-eyed and bloody. A breath catches in her throat at the shock of her baby—and he’ll _always_ be her baby—hurt. She wants nothing more than to reach out to him, hold him in her arms. But there’s a chasm between them, one she can’t bridge no matter how hard she tries.

Powering her computer down, she grabs her phone and calls the only person she knows is up at this hour. The only person who would understand.

The line rings twice before it’s picked up.

“Leia?”

For the briefest of moments, the anger and resentment rises in her chest and she considers hanging up. But she doesn’t.

“Hello, Luke.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left comments or kudos! 
> 
> As always, I’m on twitter as @nachomomma55


	6. Red Panda

 

The team is in town tonight. I’ll leave you a ticket at will call.

 

DELETEDELETEDELETE

 

I have the next couple of days off if you want to get lunch or something I could stay in town..

 

DELETEDELETEDELETE

Kylo tosses the phone across the hotel lobby couch where it bounces off a stiff cushion. A patron at a the Starbucks across the lobby throws him a look, but Kylo, who could be an Olympic gold medalist if look-throwing was a sport, throws him a scathing glare of his own. Coffee guy hastily scurries away.

Memories come flooding to the forefront of his mind, and he winces involuntarily. What do you say to a person after you’ve ruined their entire life, ripped it up into tiny shreds which you then doused in gasoline and set on fire? 

With a stretch of his long arm, he retrieves the phone easily. Sucking his lip in, tapping the side of the case, he contemplates what to say, how to say it. It has to be perfect.

_Why would she want to?_ The voice says. That damned voice. _Why would she ever want anything more to do with you? You ruined everything. Everything is your fault._

Inhaling sharply, he squeezes his eyes shut.

And because he’s a masochist, he types out another text.

 

I miss you and I’m sorry I fucked everything up.

 

DELETEDELETEDELETE 

With a tap and a swipe, he opens Twitter. The first thing to greet him on his time line? A gif of his former mentor and coach. Kylo feels his lip curl in disgust.

The leader of the Knights lifts his hands up and down like a bird, as the original poster captioned “one day I’ll fly away (from this embarrassing season).” Time has not smiled upon Skywalker, with his shaggy hair and shaggier beard. He looks less like a legendary basketball icon and more like some transient on the street. 

Inspiration strikes. A ghost of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth as he takes a screenshot. He knows exactly what to text his mother.

 

Just read a study that men’s beards have more germs than dog fur. Hmm.

 

He taps send. His eyebrows raise slightly when three dots immediately appear.

 

did a spit take of diet coke all over poe at that. HA.

 

He chuckles to himself. Whether it’s due to the mental image of Dameron doused in soda or the sheer insanity of how his broken family communicates through pure sarcasm, he can’t really be sure.

Stuffing his phone into his jacket pocket, he stands up from the stiff lobby couch and walks out the revolving door to the frigid temperature of early March in the midwest. He climbs the stairs of the chartered bus, first one on, as usual. Taking his seat in the very back, he slips on his sunglasses and puts in his earphones, armor he dons just in case someone thinks he might be approachable. Music flows into his ears and he closes his eyes.

Another game day.

 

* * *

* * *

 

“Soooo...you’re telling me there IS NOT going to be a cute little ginger raccoon jumping through hoops of fire and doing back flips?”

Rey can’t help but snicker. Finn actually looks crestfallen. Rose, meanwhile, just looks annoyed.

“First of all, red pandas are an endangered species, Finn. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. And Rong Niu? She is a _goddamned legend._ ” She turns completely toward him, rage coloring her features, shaking a finger in his face. “A fourth generation acrobat riding a unicycle and flipping ceramic bowls onto her head. _THAT_ is talent! _THAT_ is entertainment!”

Finn grumbles some thing about false advertising while flipping through his program. Rey can only shake her head and smile. They’d all become fast friends during orientation. A round of Chubby Bunny took a turn for the worst, and after some quick Heimlich thrusts from Rose resulted in a mass of slimy marshmallows expunged from Finn’s throat. They’d spent that night walking the campus well into the early hours of the morning, laughter and talking fueled by caffeine and candy procured from a nearby gas station. When the sun began to sneak up over the trees as they parted ways steps of their dorm, Ambria Hall, they were bonded for life from the stupid ice breaker.

They were thick as thieves from that point on, whether it be late night study binges during the week or all day Netflix binges on the weekend. Finn and Rose were a staple at Rey’s home games, screaming out cheers with the rest of The General’s Army. 

But the spring semester had been particularly strenuous on all three of them. Rey still struggled to balance her academic demands with her athletic responsibilities while her two friends dealt with the first year engineering courses specifically designed to weed out the weak.

So when “College Night at the Gungans Game!” happened to fall the weekend directly after midterms, Rose was adamant about going. 

“Your university ID gets you half price tickets. Oh! Half price concessions!” She gasped, gesticulating wildly. “And The Red Panda is the half time show, Rey! THE RED PANDA.”

Rey was reclined on her bed flipping through her Intro to Psychology text, highlighting a passage on Freud in neon orange. “I don’t know what that means. And I’m kinda busy with...OW!” The pillow that flew from the other side of the room was more surprising than painful. Rose artfully dodged it as it flew back at her and past her head.

“We deserve this break,” Rose stated, chin tilted up. She eyed Rey pointedly. “ _You_ deserve this.”

_As_ Rey opened her mouth in protest, Rose grabbed her shoulders, and eyed her sternly. “I’m envoking Chubby Bunny.”

“Seriously, Rose?” Rey sighed, rolling her eyes in exasperation. Her roommate fell to her knees, lip pouting and trembling, brown eyes wide and pleading. 

“Fine,” she sighed, relenting. “I’ll go.” 

The Naboo Gungans are...not good this season. All the better for the trio as they nonchalantly make their way down ten rows closer to the floor than where their actual tickets read, their hands filled with concessions.

The crowd is sparse, mostly underaged college student and a handful of ride-or-die season ticket holders. It’s a rebuilding season in Naboo, but no one seems to have told their mascot, Jar-Jar, that his team sucks. Decked out in a lime green jersey and a latex mask with bulging, googly eyes, he’s rappelling from the ceiling as carefully placed pyrotechnics explode around him. The booming voice of the PA announcer echoes through the half empty stadium “NABBBBOOOOOO. Give it up for your GUUUUNNNGGGAAAANNNNSSSS!!”

Peeling back the plastic on her nacho cheese, Rey tears her pretzel into bits as she watches the players go through their warm ups. Her gaze moves toward the opposing team, narrowing in on one individual in a black with red trim uniform with dark hair pulled back into a slightly messy bun. He turns around as she takes a bite of soft cheese goodness and she notes he’s wearing a black mask that covers half his face.

She almost chokes on her soft pretzel.

The Gungans are facing off against the Serrano Shyracks.

And who is their _star player_?

“Whoa,” Rose gulps. “Is that...?”

“Yup,” Rey nods.

“Who?” Finn pipes up, looking all around. “Where?”

Rose points down to the floor, just as Kylo Ren rips off his warm up pants in one quick flip of the wrists. “It’s Rey’s nemesis.”

“Kylo Ren? Hmm,” Finn shrugs, tossing a kernel into the air and catching it in his mouth. “I thought he’d be taller.”

“He’s not my nemesis. That implies that there’s some kind of rivalry or shared history.” She averts her gaze from the court, where Kylo is stretching out. Instead, she looks up to the giant video screen scoreboard, but his face is there, only amplified. All scowls and sharp angles. She’s transfixed by the intensity that can’t be hidden by the face mask. “I barely know him.”

“Not according to the internet, roomie.” Rose pulls out her phone, scrolling like a mad woman. “Where is that tweet,” she mutters. “Ah, here we go ‘I could watch Rey wipe the floor with Kylo’s butt 24/7/365 #KyloRenSucks.’ Oh, and this one says...hey!”

A quick reach across a popcorn munching Finn allows Rey to swipe Rose’s phone. “You’re making this up, people can’t still be talking about that,” she mutters, scrolling through the screen. “How does this have over 5000 mentions? Do people have nothing better to do with their time?”

“Haters gonna hate,” Finn says between buttery handfuls. “And they _love_ to hate this guy. You really haven’t seen this on your timeline at all?”

Rey shrugs. “The General has us on a social media embargo. I mean, I knew people would chant crap at road games, but...” She continues to scroll, pausing at a photo manipulated so it seems as if Rey and Kylo are staring longingly into each other’s eyes.

She squints at the screen, head cocked slightly to the side. “What does #reylo mean?”

Rose nearly chokes on her Hawaiian shaved ice. “That’s *cough* your *cough* ship name.” Finn gives her a couple of slaps on the back while she buries her face in the crook of her arm, giving an all clear thumbs up sign after a few seconds. 

“What is it? Is it something new?” She reaches for the phone but Rey swats her hand away as she scrolls deeper into the hashtag. “Reeeyyy, I wanna see! There’s this one artist that’s really good at drawing his ass..”

“WHAT?” Rey literally feels her soul leave her body. “Why?” She turns to her roommate, who is whistling and suddenly extremely interested in the ceiling structure. “Rose...?”

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“ROSE!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the singing of our national anthem!”

Rose wipes her brow. “Phew. Saved by patriotism!”

“Not for long,” Rey mutters under her breath.

 

* * *

 

For nearly the hundredth time, Kylo messes with the straps on his face mask. It’s only his first game back, and while cleared by the team doctor, he’s still not fully healed.

He readjusts the velcro again. It’s like trying to play in a scuba mask. Somehow, he doesn’t think James Naismith had that in mind when he first nailed a peach basket to the wall.

While the apparatus protects the injured part of his face from an flailing arms (or fists thrown), it creates pressure along his forehead and partially obscures his peripheral vision. Not to mention it makes breathing through his nose practically impossible. But at least this mask, unlike his last two (because Kylo Ren is truly _THAT_ kind of player who has several of these incidents) is an opaque black as opposed to clear, so his vision won’t be obscured further by perspiration build up.

It’s a pain in the ass, but on the plus side, it adds to his mythos. The dark mask juxtaposed with his pale skin causes him to look like a siren of death, a harbinger of pain. Even his teammates keep more of a distance than usual. 

He should feel comfortable here. Naberrie Stadium is a source of victory for him, the same court where he raised three high school state basketball trophies. It’s also the site of the last happy photo of the Organa-Solo clan; Han beaming, arm wrapped around his son’s shoulders as he held his MVP award while Leia gazed up at him with pride in her eyes.

But there’s no familiarity on this night. There’s no solace. Everything feels off. He tries to shake it off as the ref walks on to the floor and hip hop house music blares through the stadium speakers. Jumping up and down, he tries to find focus. The ref throws the ball up and the Shyracks win the tip.

The ball goes through him, like it always does. The Gungan defense ignorantly leaves him open from 15 feet. _It’s almost insulting,_ he thinks as the ball swishes through the net, barely making it past half court before Naboo turns the ball over and the Shyracks transition back to offense. 

He flashes into the paint, sending his defender off balance as he cuts back out to the arc with a wide open look at the basket. The opposing player is left tripping over his own feet as Kylo puts up three points.

The Gungans continue to dig their own grave when their point guard attempts a behind the back pass that misses its intended mark, but lands neatly in Kylo’s arms. Prize in hand, he dribbles down for a reverse dunk.

“QUIT BEING CUTE AND TAKE THE BALL TO THE FRICKING BASKET, NUMBER 3!”

That yell...he _knows_ that voice. He skids to a stop, shoes squeaking against the hardwood floor. 

Timeout is called, but he stays on the court, scanning what little crowd is present. 

Then he sees _her_. 

He can’t believe it. Twenty rows up. Mouth agape, looking like a deer caught in headlights. She looks almost...scared.

His heart pounds in his chest as their eyes lock across the chasm of the nearly empty stadium. For a moment, it feels as if they are the only two people there. 

And then she smiles, shrugs (blushes?), and sits down quickly in her seat. 

The horn sounds and he blinks. The spell is broken as okay resumes around him. 

The slight chance that he would see her again had never even crossed his mind. Here, of all places. 

Now that he’s fully aware of her eyes on him, his nerves are all over the place. He hasn’t felt this anxious since the first time The General was able to come to one of his games. He’d puked his lunch up at halftime.

_Fuck_ , he thinks, looking up at the scoreboard. _We aren’t even halfway through the first quarter._

But Naboo, much like their fans, have barely shown up. Even with his mask vexing him at every turn, his team is still ahead by 20 when the quarter ends.

He’s pulled out of the rotation at the start of the second quarter. While Kylo would much rather never come out of the game, his coach is a steadfast believer in “load management” and keeping his players fresh and free of injury.

“We’re making a run for the playoffs, Ren” he’d say, slapping a bulbous hand on Kylo’s shoulder. “Trust the process.”

Normally, he’d kick a chair at being sat down, but not tonight. Because now he gets to observe her freely (and, hopefully, not _too_ obviously). 

What if he could have been a better man? Then maybe she wouldn’t be sitting with her friends. No, he’d make sure she had the best seats behind the bench. She’d cheer when he’d hit a great shot and call him on his bullshit when he’d mess up. Then, after the final buzzer would sound, he’d bypass the sideline reporter with their microphone outstretched as Rey would be making her way to him. He’d pick her up and her legs would wrap round his waist. She’d lock her arms around his neck, the both of them smiling so much that it hurt as their faces moved closer together...

_No_. He pushes that thought down. It will never happen. Because he’s awful. He’s an undeserving monster. A creature in a mask.

He jumps off the bench, stalking down to the scorer’s table to check back into the game.

 

* * *

 

“Do you think he’s like hideously scarred under that thing?” Rose looks to Finn, chin perched on her fist.

“Maybe,” he muses.” What if his face is all sunken in? Just like, a giant, gaping hole”

“Mmm. Very Phantom of the Opera.” She strokes her chin thoughtfully. “Eh, I’d still hit that.”

“You’d what now...?”

“Shh! It’s starting!”

The lights dim and a spit light finds a petite woman standing next to a unicycle nearly twice her size. With dark hair pulled into a tight bun, she flashes a megawatt smile at the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for RED PANDA”

“OH MY GOD I AM SO EXCITED!” Rose sqeaks.

In a feat that seems to defy physics, she mounts the apparatus effortlessly, pumping the pedals in time with the beat, she greets the crowd with a flourish of her hands before she gestures to an assistant to throw her a bowl.

Leaning forward with elbows on knees, Rey watches the woman stack the bowls meticulously on her foot, one at a time. The two at a time. By the time she’s up to four, her tongue is slightly protruded in concentration as the crowd claps in time

She can definitely relate to the performer’s situation, between balancing school, sport, a roommate hellbent on making her have a social life and now...whatever _this_ thing is that’s happening with her now. She doesn’t have the words to describe the tempest of feelings swirling inside her after seeing Kylo again in the flesh.

With a sigh, she looks over to her friends who are completely captivated by the performance. With a smile, she joins them. Suddenly, Red Panda flips the balancing bowls up into the air. Out of the corner of her eye, Rey sees Rose reach down and grab Finn’s hand as the bowls land with a _clickity clack_ on the top of her head.

As the crowd goes wild, a wave of nausea washes over Rey as their fingers intertwine. It’s not a complete surprise, what with their shared looks over textbooks and they way they’d slightly bump into each other as the three of them walked around campus. But it awakens something in her. It’s not jealousy, because while she loves both of them she’s not _in love_ with either one of them. 

No, this is fear. The fear that this family of friends, like her real family that came before, is also temporary. 

No one ever stays. 

She’s always meant to be abandoned and alone.

With a hard swallow, a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she joins in the applause as Red Panda flips five bowls flawlessly into the air and onto the teetering stack. The game will soon start up again and she’ll be gratefully distracted.

At least basketball will never leave.

 

* * *

  

Kylo runs a hand through this freshly showered hair and stares sidelong at the dingy blue curtains hanging behind him. It’s standard decorating for all NBA press conference rooms, which he finds himself in at the moment, reluctantly seated behind a table at a microphone. He usually avoids these like the plague, but tonight he’s fulfilling a contractual obligation. He’s the hometown boy who “made good.” He’s a story. 

He fucking hates it.

Looking out into the small cluster of reporters, all frowns and furrowed brows, he can gather that the feeling is pretty much mutual.

“Ok guys,” the public relations guy says with a clap of his hands. “We got questions for Kylo. You got five minutes with him. We’ll start with, uh, Gregg from The Star in the front?”

“Uh, yeah,” the bald reporter murmurs, looking over his glasses. “Kylo, walk me through how you guys dominated so completely tonight.”

He lets out a deep sigh at the non-question that causes the mic to pop and crackle. “It’s simple math, Gregg. We put the ball in the basket several more times than they did.”

The reporter grumbles and types furiously into his phone. Kylo can see himself on the monitor in the back, a slight sneer on his face. _Shoulda been prepared, Gregg._

“Yeah, Tony from The Athletic.” 

The PR points out a slightly less bald man in glasses (why do all sports reporters look the same?).

“Hey, Kylo. Great game tonight. I noticed you played the entire second half without your protective facewear. Why was that?”

“A minor malfunction,” he replies, slightly pursing his lips.

Which is hardly the case. The cursed thing slipped down into his field of vision one too many times just before the end of the second corner. With adrenaline fueled agitation flowing through his veins, he’d ripped off the mask on the way to the visitor locker room and promptly smacked it hard against a cinder block wall, cracking it neatly into two pieces.

Not that he was going to disclose that to Tony.

“Chris from ESPN.”

“Kylo, it was noted on social media that Rey Johnson was in attendance tonight. I’m curious to get your version of the events that transpired this summer.”

“My ‘ _version_ ’?”

“Yeah. You’ve never commented on it. What was your initial reaction? The internet has painted it as a kind of—and I’m just quoting one of numerous tweets here,—a ‘clowning.’ Did you ever see the footage? And if so, what were your thoughts?”

 

“I saw the footage, yeah. It’s nothing. Sometimes you get schooled in a pickup game by a nobody.” He regrets his words as soon as they pass his lips. But it’s all verbal diarrhea now, just spewing out his mouth. “I don’t really see what that question has to do with the narrative of the season or even this game. So, if none of you have any questions of substance..”

He stands up and moves to leave, but the frazzled PR guy blocks his path.

“We still have some time...”

“I’m done.” He spits the words through gritted teeth and the man smartly removes himself from his path. 

Less than twenty minutes later, he’s in a car heading towards Endor, the events of the evening replaying in his aching head. Cradling his right cheek in his hand, he stares out the window at the passing cars, orange lights of street lamps flickering across his features. Breaking the mask was stupid mistake. An open invitation for the opposing team to attack him where he was vulnerable. Hands came into contact with his partially healed zygomatic no less than half a dozen times, with zero instances witnessed by the refs. Yes, it was this mistake that was the cause of his headache, not the line of questioning taken at the end of the press conference. Absolutely not.

At least he has a short reprieve from his responsibilities. No games or practices for the next 48 hours means there will be zero repercussions if he goes home, pulls the bottle of vodka from his empty fridge and takes shots until the pain is drowned before passing out in his own bed.

Completely alone. As he’s chosen to be.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Red Panda is the best halftime show ever, do not at me.
> 
> What Finn was expecting.
> 
>  
> 
> Kylo’s face mask is modeled after this one LeBron James wore a few years back.
> 
> Chubby Bunny is totally a thing.
> 
> Shyracks
> 
> Gungans
> 
> The article Kylo texted Leia
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! You can find me on Twitter or even on tumblr.


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